The Game
by FroggyFeet
Summary: Ellis smiled, but it wasn't happy. "We were never gonna win the game, were we?"


It wasn't mean to happen like this.

They were meant to be saved; evacuated with the other survivors. Instead they were huddled, back to back with the soldiers surrounding them like a pack of dogs. Their guns were gone, and their legs were dead.

It wasn't meant to happen like this.

Ellis threw the pipe bomb like he used to throw a ball; high and far. It landed somewhere in the distance, shrieking manically as the infected swarmed and thrummed around it. The explosion turned the wave of the sick into a heavy rain of jellied shrapnel, blood and gore pelting the survivors scuttling under the pipes of the sugar mill. Nick vaulted over a low pipe that made his torso look like a twig, a shorter Rochelle clambering after him. Coach was on her heels, and Ellis was a few feet in front of Nick.

It was maybe three weeks since the failed evacuation on the hotel rooftop, and they had found quite quickly that the infected were mindlessly ruthless. The creatures that made up the general population were stupid, but very perceptive and would be attracted to the slightest noise or movement. When one came, it always brought friends. There was always another one coming.

The specials were considerably more dangerous; if you were alone. They were cleverer than a common infected, but a horde would –and had- overwhelmed the survivors before, whereas a special infected was typically picked off in seconds in such a tightly packed team. But the clever ones were tricky. A few times Coach had barrelled into a safe house to be slammed to the floor, crushed against a wall and heartlessly beaten to death by a Charger that had wandered into the haven before them. But an intelligent beast could be out manoeuvred, out-smarted, but a mindless eating machine didn't care if it was blown to pieces. They just kept running. They'd run into a fire to get just one more nibble.

Ellis had learnt that rather quickly.

Another time, a Hunter had leapt into the fire before leaping, making the survivors scatter. The cat-like infected landed on Rochelle, and nearly gored her completely beyond repair before Nick punted the little creature in the head. The thing went sprawling, but Nick followed up the kick by shooting it in the head. The clever ones were difficult, but could be overcome. The stupid ones were rather a relief.

The Hunter landed like a cat a foot or so from Ellis on the crumbling Mill wall, before it screeched and pounced. It sailed over his head, and landed like a sack of potatoes amongst the debris that decorated the 'front garden' of the trailer. Rochelle cracked the shotgun and re-loaded. They carried on running. They found pretty quickly that the faster they were, the less infected they would attract. They picked up everything useful they could find and squirreled it away for when it would save their skins. Coach had kept the same defibrillator from the carnival that had revived Rochelle from a particularly nasty horde attack. The creatures seemed to be more bent on inflicting damage than anything else.

They were always fighting, if not survivors then each other. At night he could hear them crying outside the safe house, could hear the mewling of a Hunter and the sudden choked sobs of a Smoker. He could hear a Boomer explode a few yards or so away, hear a Spitter cry out as she died in the night. A hunter's proud screech, a Charger's victorious bellow. It didn't matter, though. There was always more. There wasn't any end to them.

Ellis didn't know why the infected were so angry, though.

He frowned. They were the infection. They had already lost hope in the fact that someone would save them. They weren't running from dead things anymore; they were the horde. The specials were sentient, however. And that was enough. Or maybe he was over thinking things, humanising creatures that were long since dead to civilised society. Maybe they were just raging monsters. Maybe destruction was in their DNA. He snorted.

Hypocrisy at its finest.

Ellis was broken from his thoughts when they reached the elevator, and had to stare at the endless sea of infected swaying with the corn in the field outside. Nick almost smashed the elevator button in apprehension. The machine squealed, and the infected roared. The survivors collectively shivered at the intensity. They were everywhere in moments.

When the tall, long necked woman appeared in the distance and Rochelle's gun ran out amongst the chaos a little too late, they knew it was going to get worse. The floor under their feet became tortuous, and the survivors scattered. The Horde pummelled and pulped them into a screaming mass of pure terror, but Coach didn't relent. He growled like an animal and hefted the chainsaw from his back. They didn't stand a chance. The infected fell like bugs during fumigation, and when Ellis felt the seven infected punching at his back drop dead, he leapt into the space and created more; swinging the guitar like a pro. He should have felt sick at the cracking and screaming, but he didn't. He felt exhilarated.

Then he heard Rochelle scream.

Coach had been hit by a torrent of Boomer bile, but he hadn't run backwards into the opening elevator doors. He hadn't joined them, let them shoot the chaotic horde as they cawed and teethed at him. He did'nt let them cover his back. He pushed the three into the elevator with an easy sweep, punched the down button and leapt back out of the way, chainsaw at his side. The elevator lurched down, and Nick never stopped hammering on the up button. The machine didn't listen, and instead carried on inching downwards; oblivious to the screams of the man above.

However, the night went silent after that.

He had finished the horde up there and died alone. Rochelle was crying silently, and Nick was silent and dead-eyed. Ellis didn't let it engulf him like it did them. He grabbed Nick's shoulder and pulled Rochelle's wrist. "He wouldn't want us to give up! We gotta keep going!"

Nick nodded, but Rochelle didn't respond.

They both raised their guns. The three silhouettes shivered through the field's long corn-plants, and after they slumped in the safe house, did Ellis crack. Rochelle had said a simple, monotone sentence. "He had started growing buboes two days ago. He didn't tell you guys because he didn't want you to freak. Wanted to see it as far as he could before…"

Her voice broke.

It had been an hour after that they decided to move. They picked up as much gas as they could carry in as big as canisters as they could and fought their way back to Virgil. When he dumped them at the docks of New Orleans, they trudged through the streets in their beaten skins and into safe house after safe house. Every time they expected Coach to appear. He never did.

It was at the second safe house that it happened.

In a way, it was worse than Coach. Rochelle had smiled at Ellis, tears in her eyes. He didn't understand, but Nick's face turned to stone. He gripped Ellis' hand and tugged him out of the door. Ellis didn't understand. Rochelle pressed the magnum to the soft underbelly of her jaw. When the gunshot rung out, Ellis lost his mind. They ran through the park, eyes on everything at once.

The bridge had been almost impossible.

It had been pure fluke when the military helicopter landed on the platform and they had been there to greet it. They leapt from one hell and into another. The second they landed they knew something was wrong. They were on the edge of a huge campus, full of what looked to be healthy, if not shaken, people.

Then a fanciful man dressed in the most medals showed up.

He said a simple sentence, and they looked to each other like cornered rats in a bucket full of bleach. Ellis planted his back against Nick's own, eyes darting across the faceless soldiers that lurched towards them.

_"One of you punks is a carrier."_

It was a simple sentence, but it finished them both. Ellis used to think it would take a lot to make him break. That it would take an entire speech to make him lose his cool. He would have laughed at the irony, but he hadn't any clue what irony was. All it took was a single, short sentence and he was screaming, eyes wild, arms waving as if he was drowning. In a way, he was.

**"_Ellis_."**

The boy turned and glared at Nick.

The man was smiling, wan and cold. Then he did what Nick did best. He gambled. The sudden shrieking sound was loud, and it drowned out the sound of the soldiers. He threw the jar, flinging the liquid around himself and Ellis like a superstitious teen might in a graveyard. Keep the dead away; a ring of salt. Nick smeared the green glop over the soldiers that pressed up close, men screaming as the horde thundered out of the forest and threw themselves against the wire fencing that bordered the "safe zone." So much for safe.

They overwhelmed the gates easily, surging towards the puke covered soldiers and ignoring the terrified civilians completely. The soldiers were down in seconds. Ellis felt himself being pulled, hauled and torn through the group, and suddenly he was running through a forest, branches tearing his skin, leaves blinding his eyes. Nick's ruined suit was bobbing along in front of him, stark and white in the foliage.

They stopped at what looked to be a little shack. Nick joked about Cabin Fever. Ellis sat down in the corner, and he didn't get back up. But that didn't matter, because Nick sat down next to him. "Buck up kid, we aren't out of the shit creek yet."

Ellis snorted. "Man. We are so fucked."

Nick shrugged, "We were always fucked, Ellis."

Ellis smiled, but it wasn't happy. "We were never gonna win the game, were we?"

Nick smiled, slapped the boy on the knee. "No, we weren't."


End file.
